i want to grow fingertips.
fingertips that can caress the edge of
your jaw without trying to clench your
esophagus and block your airway 'till
you have no more oxygen left in your blue veins.

i want fingertips that can
gently ease you up and over
the moon as you wish to be
among the stars instead of grabbing
hold of your maroon tee so tight
that i have to scrub my palms off of it.

i want to grow fingertips that
can hold onto the wine glass filled with
sprite and crown. such a strong drink
for a delicate glass that usually ends up
going into the wall two inches away from
your creased forehead.

and you say fingertips are a waste of time,
just like me. but i cannot stand to have
just hard, calloused hands. hands
that don't appreciate the acute memories
that evolve between us. and between you
and me, i want fingertips so that i
can hold the small, delicate sunflower petals
when i place them on your grave.